


The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by words_of_a_broken_man



Category: Hannibal (TV), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Bedannibal - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hannidelia, electric-couple prompts, james bond with very little bond, mads/gillian crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_of_a_broken_man/pseuds/words_of_a_broken_man
Summary: With seemingly unlimited resources Stella Gibson is dispatched to investigate the discovery of a body by fishermen in Cornwall.  As secrecy surrounding the purpose of her investigation mounts she battles to uncover the truth and bring a killer to justice.James Bond/ The Fall crossover for @electric-couple's Mads/Gillian all character crossover challenge.I've picked two pretty edgy, intense characters, not sure how this is going to play out just yet.





	1. Chapter 1

“Aye, spin that light there, boy!”

Harsh wind whipped the grizzled seaman’s raincoat around his flanks, salt clinging to his beard as he shouted over the crash of water against the hull. The ocean tossed the little crabbing boat around like a toy as he steered from the fly-bridge; searching for the familiar white and orange of the string of buoys that marked his pots in the driving rain.

“I see em’ cap!” The kid shouted; voice muted by the tempest. “80 yards starboard!”

The captain bodily swung the spotlight left, rain dancing as the shaft of light tripped across the waves.

“Aye! Good eyes there, boy!” He muscled the wheel around, reversing the engines to pivot the boat.   “Gaff em, son!”

The boy grabbed a brutal looking tri-hook tethered to a length of sea-worn rope, swung it once, twice before loosing it into the storm, letting it ride back on the wind. Weighted perfectly it dropped just ahead of the main buoy, the kid whipped the rope back toward him, catching the line in a smooth movement as the boat edged closer.

Cap left the bridge, sliding down the railing to the main deck to join the boy hauling the line back toward the boat. He quickly swung the main buoy line into the winch manning the controls as the groan of hydraulics coming to pressure added a driving bass to the high-notes of the storm. Cogs slowly began to turn as the winch slowly ratcheted the pots from the ocean, water spraying from the line as it spooled on the boat. 

“They feed well in this weather, boy!” He called over the howl of the wind and agonized grind of the winch. “Five tonne and we’re home and dry for the month.”

“Aye, Cap!” The boy rocked back and forward on the heels of his boots, raincoat whipping around his lithe frame. “I’m gonna go to Greece! My Da says the islands are a good bit of fun!”

The first pot emerged slowly from the surf, jolting in time with the laboured movement of the hoist.

“Look at that boy!” Cap shouted, punching the air. “We’re going to Greece alright, son!”

The boy clung to the railing, guiding the pot down toward the sorting table, genuinely elated. He’d never seen a catch like this before. He quickly pulled the pin on the pot sending crabs cascading across the table. The Cap joined him, deftly spinning spider crabs down the shoot into the deep freeze below deck.

“That’s strange.” Cap gazed quizzically at the pot. “Lotta chum left there for that many crabs.” A broad hunk of pale meat remained in the back of the trap. Nonplussed they hauled the pot to the side waiting for the next in the line.

“Forget Greece, boy!” The cap hooted, watching another load of crabs spill from the next pot. “Hawaii!”

Laughing, the two men sorted through their haul, tossing the odd undersized crustacean back over the stern and into the ocean.

“Cap…” The boy muttered, tugging at the older man’s jacket sleeve.

“What is it, boy?” He remained focused on the task, cigarette jammed in the corner of his mouth in defiance of the elements. 

“Cap!” An odd urgency filled the boy’s tone. 

“What, boy!” He glanced up, irritated.

The lad stood there, ashen faced, pale as the white peaks of the waves cresting about them. The old seaman followed his gaze to the chum trap in the back of the pot.

“What the fuck?”

 

***

 

“Cornwall, Gibson?”

“Yes, Sir. Cornwall.” DSI Stella Gibson, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear shuffled through a stack of photographs. “I’m about…” she paused, eyes flicking out of the car window in search of a road marker. “25 miles out, say 35 minutes in this weather.”

“Who authorized Cornwall? I need you here on the DeBussey case!”

“Came from top brass Sir.” Gibson muttered, studying another image, paying scant attention to the conversation. Suddenly the car lurched as the suspension failed to negate a pot-hole sending prints sailing around the back of the car.

“Shit!” She cursed, scrambling to control the cascade of paperwork, phone tumbling to the floor as the gap widened between her ear and shoulder. Gibson sighed, abandoning the file as she hunted for her phone.

“Sorry sir.” She gathered herself, offering a calm apology in spite of her irritation.

“What was that about, Gibson?”

“Country roads, sir.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Sir, Assistant Commissioner Stone contacted me personally this morning and instructed me to get to Cornwall immediately. I’m simply following orders.” Gibson paused. “I suggest you take it up with him.”

“I intend to.” Her CO paused. “Be careful, Stella.”

“I always am.” Gibson blanched at his patronizing tone, grateful for the 300 miles between them. She flipped her phone shut, tossing it harder than intended at the empty seat beside her.

“Everything alright, ma’am?” Her driver, a kind-eyed 20 something detective constable glanced over his shoulder.

“Fine, Jimmy.” She sighed, his warm expression eliciting a forced smile.

“Mum, as much as it’s quite the honour just to be your driver…” He began, tentatively. “Am I allowed to know why you’re off to Cornwall with such haste?”

“You’re about to find out.” Gibson offered, a faint smile dancing across her features.

“Thankyou, Mum.”

Gibson’s gaze flicked up to the rear-view mirror, relishing the flash of light in his eyes.

 

***

 

The weather in Cornwall was dismal. Oppressive.

“Utter shit!” Gibson cursed, bodily forcing the car door open as the wind whipped her white-blonde hair across her face. The rain may have abated, but the gale persisted, she pulled her overcoat tighter in defiance of the elements.

She strode purposefully across the car park toward the dock. No police lines or fanfare present. A handful of squad cars and a few uniforms dotted the pier, most seeking shelter wherever they could, fluorescent rain coats like buoys on the water as she approached. A single boat moored at the main dock her target as her fleet-footed colleague danced across the terrain behind her.

Two uniformed officers stood sentry outside a small shed on the pier, clearly miserable as the braved the elements.

“Detective Superintendent Gibson.”   Voice raised in attempt to ride over the wind she flashed her badge.

“Aye.” One of the unformed men extended a hand, greeting her brusquely. “Sarge is expecting you.”

Gibson nodded in acknowledgement, pushing through the door into the shanty. Out of the weather the shed wreaked of sea and rotting crab shells, if anything the storm outside was less offensive. She steeled herself; fouler odors had struck her.

“Gibson?” A voice permeated her thoughts.

“Yes.” She span on a heel, intercepting. “You must be Sergent Ross?”

“Yes ma’am.” A grizzled, portly officer of no less than 45, the remainder of his hair cropped close to his skull extended his hand. “I’ll be fair with you, mum.” He shook his head, eyes on his shoes momentarily. “We don’t take kindly to you mob coming down from the Met.” He sighed. “But we also don’t see things the likes of this here. This is quiet place. A kind place. A place for families…” He trailed off, clutching at his hat as he averted her gaze.

“It’s okay, Sergent.” She soothed, her timbre smoky, reassuring. “Tell me what happened.”

“Iain and the boy… Colm….” He paused. “They were out there pulling their pots, and it looks like someone, ahh… Got to them first.” The Sarge hesitated, shaking his head. “They ahh, re-baited them. Threw in a little extra chum.”

“I’ve seen the photographs, Sergent.” Gibson offered, ending his discomfort. “Can I speak to the fishermen?”

“Yes ma’am.” The Sarge snapped to attention. “The boy isn’t in a good way, but Iain is in the tea room.” He gestured toward the door behind him.

Gibson nodded silently in acknowledgement, slowly eking past him toward the door.

“Wait here, Jimmy.” She nodded back at her companion. Stella twisted the knob, cool and salt-slick beneath her fingers and slowly pushed through the door. Clad in a plaid shirt and a pair of yellow waders the weary captain nursed a cup of tea as the last of the afternoon sun broke through the clouds.

Stella took a seat opposite him, shards of light dancing through her hair as she studied him silently.

“You’re the city copper?” The grizzled seaman offered warily.

“I guess I am.”

He glanced up from his tea, scoffing quietly.

“What’s on my boat ain’t any sight for a lady.”

“Your deckhand?” Stella offered, impassively.

“Ain’t no sight for a boy either.”

“I’ve seen far worse.” She persisted, voice gentle. “Tell me.”

“I dropped my pots yesterday morning before the weather came in.” The cap paused, taking a long swallow of tea. “On the regular, we’d pull them same time next day, 3am.”

The cap shuddered, pushing his tea away. He reached under the table, depositing a bottle of Jameison between them.

“Do you mind, ma’am?” He dumped the contents of his mug on the floor unceremoniously, splashing a measure of whisky in its wake. Stella’s eyes flashed around the room, spying a stray mug. She rose, quickly nosing it for cleanliness before dropping it next to his.

“Not if you share.”

The captain flashed a tired smile, splashing her a dram

“You’re my kinda copper.”

Gibson smiled.

“So someone pulled your pots and re-baited them?”

“Aye, mum.” He smiled grimly. “Best catch I’ve seen in years too. Shoulda known something was awry.”

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Aye mum.” He chuckled, taking a long swallow of whiskey. “Boat was docked, I was at home with my wife.”

“When did you realise your line had been tampered with?”

“Aye. I pulled the first one, and there was still chum in there, which was odd.” He paused. “When we pulled the second one, there was a bloody arm in the trap…” He sloshed another measure of whiskey into his mug, gulping it down unceremoniously. “By the fourth it was pretty bloody clear something was a-foul.”

“What did you do with the pots?”

“They’re on the boat.” He paused. “Poor bastard is still baited up like we found him.”

“And the crabs?” Stella pressed.

“They’re in the freezer below deck, mum.” He sighed. “We haven’t seen a catch like this in months. God knows we need the money, but what them crabs been eating…”

“Iain, we’re going to have to take the catch.” Gibson began, taking an easy swig of whiskey. “They’re evidence. Our forensic team need to examine them.”

“Aye. Of course.  Like on the telly.” He laughed ruefully.

“We also need to examine your boat, that will take time as well.” Stella paused, before countering. “You will be compensated though, perhaps a little time off might be a good thing?”

“Compensation?” The old fisherman looked at her blankly.

“Yes.” Stella slid a business card across the table. “Geoff Tolder from the home office will be out here tomorrow with forensics, he’ll talk you through the process of filing the appropriate paperwork.”

“I don’t understand…” He fingered the card nervously, eyeing her with caution.

“The value of your catch that Her Majesty’s government is about to take, plus your lost income while we examine your boat.” Stella began to explain, gently. “You won’t lose any money. You could even take a little time out while we look into things.”

“You’re not joshing?”

“No, captain.” Gibson finished her dram, reaching for the bottle. 

“The boy was saying he wanted to go to the Greek Islands…” He mused, watching her gracefully refill her mug.

“Perhaps you should both go.” She smiled, downing her whiskey in a single smooth motion. She pushed a second business card across the table. “I don’t believe you set your pots with anything other than mutton from the Cornwall abattoir, Iain. But if you remember anything else that seems out of the ordinary.”

“Yes ma’am.” He nodded, a weary grin emerging from beneath the thicket of stubble guarding his features.

Gibson stood, extending her hand. The old fisherman reciprocated, standing slowly; his strong, rough palm enveloping hers, grip assuredly firm but gentle.

“You catch these arseholes who fucked with my pots and upset my boy.”

“I promise.”

 

***

 

“To be honest, Stella there’s not a whole lot left to identify.”

Gibson walked in step with Professor Harold Blunt, the Crown’s chief Medical examiner. The rhythmic click of heels against linoleum puncturing sterile silence as they approached the secure part of the mortuary. Blunt handed a file to her; Gibson leafed through, skimming notes and diagrams as she walked.

“No photos, Professor?” She snapped the file closed in a single-handed flourish as Blunt paused, waving an access card over the reader at the final set of doors.

“The Greeks called it, ‘the act of seeing with one’s own eyes,’ Gibson.” Blunt fished a jar of Vics from the pocket of his scrubs, offering it in a perfunctory manner. She studied him briefly, cool fluorescent light glancing off his smoothly shaven head a contrast to neatly trimmed salt and pepper stubble dusting his face, scrubs hanging from his lean frame a little too loosely.

“Thankyou.” Gibson tucked the file under her arm, dabbing a measure of Vics discretely beneath each nostril.

“Between the crabs and the variety of methods used to dismember our friend here, there isn’t a lot to work with in the traditional sense.” Blunt circled the slab; a series of chunks of cadaver arranged in a barely discernible order overlain by the stench of decay and crustecea greeted her.

“Dental records are out.” Blunt snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves before gently lifting a chunk of bone. “You can see here, the skull has been split down the centre with what was most likely an axe.” He traced the fracture line with a finger as Gibson watched intently. “The slight beveling on the edge of the bone here indicates it was blunt-force trauma rather than burr created by a reciprocal saw or tool. Likewise you can see where the remainder of the skull has cracked at the bone plate.”   He rotated the skull fragment in his hands. “That said; this most likely would have occurred post-decapitation.”

“No teeth or jaw material has been recovered.” Blunt continued. “We’re sequencing DNA as we speak, however that’s of little use unless our friend here happens to be in the National database. The wire they used to secure the bait in the crab pots is also being examined. No match to the material we found on the boat unsurprisingly or the side cutters.”

“I’ve put in a request to Europol for access to their DNA database, it’s being expedited by brass.”

“Of course.” Blunt paused. “It’s a long shot, Stella.” He placed the skull fragment back on the table. “But there is this.”

Blunt gestured toward a ragged chunk of meat, an arm, intact if not stripped of flesh in places, ragged fibres of muscle fringed at the elbow joint around the cartilage. Somehow the upper arm remained remarkably intact; a peculiar tattoo wrapped around the bicep and shoulder. Gibson snapped on a glove, gently rotating the arm.

“Whoever set our friend here as crab bait intended for him to be found.” Stella mused. “We won’t have a DNA record for him, I doubt we would even have dental records. However, I’m willing to bet that tattoo is listed as an identifying mark somewhere.” 

“I don’t believe there’s any central database for that, ma’am.” Blunt offered. “Sifting through those records will be quite a task. Isn’t it just Jim and yourself on this one?”

“It is.” Stella paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. “And I see it’s just you here, none of your minions swarming you.”

“I have a handful working on analysis, but access to the victim is restricted.” He tipped his chin skyward, eyebrows raised, a curious half smile drifting across his features. “The men upstairs, hey?”

“Men indeed.” Stella smiled. “You’ll email all of this through? I trust this can’t leave your hands.”

“Correct. Met secure server.”

"Thanks, Harry."

"My pleasure, Stella."  He paused.  "Say, you don't happen to be free for a drink later this week?"

"I'll let myself out."  Gibson lobbed her gloves easily into the trash, flashing him a wry smile as she sauntered easily toward the door.

 

*** 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a little help from her partner, Gibson makes a preliminary breakthrough, attracting attention from above.

“He’s not in the UK prison database, ma’am.” Jim rocked backward in his chair, rubbing his eyes as the twin screens in front of him began to blur into a single abstract mess.

The muted evening lights of Westminster tinted the now empty office, Big Ben, Parliament and the rest of the public service glowing gently in the clear London night. She had kept him late, keen to avoid the prying eyes and questions of colleagues with little better to do. Her rapid deployment and surprise allocation of the young DC had already created a vacuum of whispers around the yard.

“You’ve still got IAS, traffic and the rest of the Government databases to get through.” Gibson offered crisply, face contorted in revulsion as she deliberately downed a now tepid cup of filter coffee.

“You don’t want to stop for some dinner, mum?” His head lolled across in her direction, a few strands of sandy hair falling across his eyes.

“If hunger is the most pertinent thing in your world right now, James.” She remained buried in her search. “By all means duck out for a curry.”

The young DC sighed, exasperated at her unwavering focus. The last thing he ate was a sub-par corned beef sandwich she had thrown at him unceremoniously on the drive back to London some eight hours ago.

“You know mum, this is pointless if he’s not British.” Jim fumbled around on his desk, inelegantly locating the print he was looking for as he sat upright. “Last time I saw any ink like this I was still in the forces.” He muttered, carefully studying the photograph.

“So add immigration to your list.” Stella remained unmoved.

“Seriously, ma’am.” Gaining in confidence, his voice lifted, momentum building. “I’d say there’s a good chance this bloke never set foot on British soil.”

Stella resurfaced, swiveling in her chair to face him. He had an audience now. Attenuating to his demeanour, her razor sharp gaze bore through him as she assessed his confidence in his own convictions. Jim swallowed, raising the photo of the tattooed arm.

“This tattoo.” He began. “It’s an Albanian Nationalist symbol.”

“Really?” Interest piqued, Stella swiped at her copy of the photo. “It looks like a prison tattoo.”

“Very similar.” He paused, plugging a few words into the search engine on his computer. “The two-headed eagle. Some of the KLA guys would ink them on each other. You’re right though.” He tilted his screen toward her. “Little more than a prison tattoo.”

An array of poorly rendered tattoos began to populate the screen.

“You’re suggesting he’s ex-military?” Stella watched in intrigue as the young DC began to gain momentum.

“Perhaps.” Jim rocked back, swiveling in his chair to face her. “Calling those guys military is a bit of a stretch. Some fought for love of country, others for love of fighting.” He flipped his pen absently across his knuckles. “Turning up in a crab pot generally isn’t too likely if you’ve been discharged with honours.”

“True.” Stella pondered. “You think he’s a terrorist?”

“A mercenary maybe?” Jim shrugged, Stella watched him intently as the fabric of his shirt tightened around his biceps and chest as he shifted; musculature accented by the dim evening light of their office.

“He’s not a war criminal who happened to meet an untimely end?” Stella probed, playing devils advocate.

“No.” He paused, cocking his head as he bathed in the heat of her attention. “They have a tendency to make an example of those blokes if they’re found. Public displays of violence… Using him as anonymous crab bait 3000 miles away would bring no satisfaction.”

“I see.”

“There’d be evidence online. A video. Something for the true believers, you know?” Jim leaned forward, watching her intently. “That’s on the proviso he was a wanted man.”

“Military training is based on dehumanization and homogeny.” Stella mused. “Yet as you so astutely noted, there are always those who are drawn to war at the prospect of violence over valour. Particularly special forces.”

“The army accepts all.” Jim continued. “And militia accept any.”

“You know, Jimmy.” Stella smiled. “I think we could both do with some dinner.”

He grinned, rocking back in his chair as he tapped his pen against his bottom lip.

“What do you feel like, ma’am?”

“Something a little spicy.” Stella paused. “Thai maybe?”

“There’s a half decent joint on Grosvenor…” Jim sprang from his chair, grabbing his coat as he walked. “What do you like to eat?”

“Whatever you’re having, but make it hot.”

She watched him stride out the door, fatigue and hunger obliterated by the adrenaline rush of discovery. Stella couldn’t help but smile at his eagerness and desire to impress. Prize ex-military recruit; out of uniform and into the Met within 2 years of finishing his training. Single, modest upbringing, scholarship to Sandhurst; honourable discharge at 27 following a stint in the Special Forces and service with NATO. A sweet boy, she thought. Those Special Forces types always made great operatives, fearless, nothing to lose, but only ever as effective as their ability to ask why.

The faint bell of the elevator drifted through the office. Safe in the knowledge Jim was on his way, Stella tapped double scroll-lock on her keyboard; the INTERPOL system sprang to life, logon screen replacing the regular Met system. She glanced over her shoulder then up at the office surveillance cameras. Stella leant back in her chair, stretching lugubriously. Pulling her in-tray forward to obscure the view of her keyboard from the angle of the camera as she returned to scale. Logging in rapidly, she cued up a search, ‘Albanian nationals terrorism.’ Fifty-seven hits.

“Thank Christ.” She sighed audibly and thus began the inane process of cycling through hits. Generally she’d have a task force of near 20 to delegate to, but no such luck on this occasion. God bless Jim and his quiet innocence. Page after page of steel-eyed, buzz-cut thugs paraded before her until a mop of wild black curls caught her attention.

Dr Islam Bouraji.

Distinguishing features. Mole below left eye. Two toes missing on right foot. Scar across upper abdomen following blast injury. Tattoo right upper arm.

Stella clicked through the images one by one.

“Hello sailor.” Stella chuckled grimly as the image of a tattooed right upper arm began to render. This was almost too easy.

She scrolled down. Albanian, Muslim. PhD in biochemistry; Humbolt, Berlin. Wanted for the sale of chemical agents and neurotoxins. Suspected of making Sarin gas for Hezbollah, Ricin for the Sicilian mafia, selling nerve gas to Gaddafi…

“Shit…” Stella breathed.

She opened a second browser window, ‘Body crab pot.’

Nothing.

‘Body fishing bait’

Three hits, all off the Sardinian coast.

 

***

 

“Darling, please.” Sir Reginald sighed, propping himself up in bed, lamplight catching the dappled white and grey of his beard as he appealed to his wife.   “It’s almost midnight. For the last time, will you please put that ghastly thing away?”

“Reg, I’ve tolerated your briefs and case notes in this bed for 35 years.” She glared at him, face tinted blue by the light of her laptop as she worked. “The point is moot. Sleep on the settee if it bothers you.”

“How much longer?” He sighed, rolling to face his compact, perfectly coiffed wife as she typed, screen reflecting in the lenses of her glasses.

“Ten minutes.”

“Thank Christ, I was just…” The atonal burr of the phone cut him short.

Rolling her eyes, she surveyed the assemblage by her bedside. Level 4, classified; she diverted the call, activated encryption and lifted the receiver.

“Villiers. It’s 11.30, assure me this intrusion is worth the consequence.”

“M, seems our girl has made a break-through.”

“In under 18 hours.” M paused, a faint smile penetrating her measured demeanor. “Perhaps she is as good as they tell me.”

“She’s currently accessing the INTERPOL database, Islam Bouraji.”

“That parasite.” M scowled, quickly bringing his record up on her laptop. “You’re shadowing her?”

“Yes mum.” Villiers paused, leaning over the digital technician watching Stella’s every mouse click. “Known associates now…”

“Who is she looking at?” M scanned the list in front of her. “Dimitrios? Blanco? Madau? Trepardov?”

“Madau and the Sardinians.” Villiers continued, watching the disembodied pointer travel unaided across the screen. “Le Chiffre.”

“Le Chiffre?” With two clicks his profile sprang to life under her gaze. “He’s barely extended himself beyond finance and card tricks for years now…” M clicked through her records. “Unless of course he….” She cut herself short. “Villiers. Bring in Gibson first thing tomorrow. She’s served her purpose.”

“Yes mum.”

“I hope that was worth it.” Sir Reginald sighed, propping himself up on one elbow as M gently replaced the receiver.

“Reg!” M glared at her husband affectionately as she snapped her laptop shut, placing it down on her bedside table before plunging the room into darkness. She shuffled down, making herself comfortable beneath the duvet as his arms snaked around her.

“In the words of Tennyson, ‘To strive, to seek to find and not to yield,’ my darling.” Reginald whispered as M relaxed into his embrace.

“Words were always your power, Reg.” She smiled into the darkness.

“The pen is mightier than the sword.”

“I wish that were always the case.”

 

***


	3. CHAPTER 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DSI Gibson is summoned to a mysterious meeting and finally finds an equal.

The wind whipped at her coat as she boarded the boat, easily navigating the drop down from the jetty to the deck as the ocean began to churn. Too much for a moored vessel, she figured, flailing arms catching the winch for stability as the ocean tossed the small vessel around. She span toward the flybridge as the ship morphed from trawler to treasure; a motor yacht on calm seas, harbour lights dancing across sapphire leagues. She is on her hands and knees now, the smooth carpet of the rear deck beneath her palms as she glances up toward the clear, starless sky. The distinct, ferric aroma of blood adds a high note to the clean ocean air as she slowly looks around. Sensing motion in her periphery she spins, just in time to see the gaff hook spearing toward the side of her skull…

_Rap rap rap…_

Knuckled on frosted glass.

_Rap rap rap…_

A far cry from metal on bone.

_Rap rap rap…_

Gibson shifted groggily on the cot behind her desk, the dim morning light an intrusion as she oriented herself. Salt air replaced by recycled as she fumbled for her journal.

_Rap rap rap…_

She stood, shaking the final image from her mind, palms fastidiously smoothing the silk of her blouse as she padded toward the office door in stocking feet. She glanced at the clock on the far wall, cursing under her breath.

“Six AM. This better be good, Jim.” She swung the door open with fractionally more malice than intended.

“Detective Superintendent Gibson?”

Taller, sharper featured; older and wary-eyed in a Saville Row suit, the impeccable weave glinting in defiance of the dim pre-dawn light. Lawyer, Stella surmised, extending her hand in grim anticipation of a subpoena.

“Who are you representing?” Stella offered flatly, eyeing the deep yellow envelope the man bore in his leather-gloved hand.

“Gibson.” He offered the envelope, non-plussed by her attitude. “I think you’ll find we both serve the same master.” He held her gaze a moment longer, slowly retreating as he watched her turn the envelope over in her hand.

Stella examined the familiar deep yellow envelope, glancing up in time to catch the mysterious mailman vanishing into the elevator. OHMS. She closed her office door, idly tearing through the seal with a plastic knife left over from the previous evening’s meal.

 

_DSI Gibson_

_You are required to provide a case brief on the Cornwall Harbour investigation at 0700. Please come prepared.   Transport has been arranged._

_M_

The letterhead bore no address or insignia save for On Her Majesty’s Service embossed on heavy weight textured paper, the signature a simple, elegantly signed glyph.  

Stella dropped the letter onto her desk, eyeing it suspiciously.   She glanced at her phone, momentarily considering calling an old mentor for advice before chastising herself. This was no Met correspondence. She flipped through the case file, now including her recent addition of INTERPOL’s cursory files on Islam Bouraji and the Madau brothers. Evidently her body in a crab pot was a wanted man, but surely authority figures trading under a single letter were little more than a cold-war relic? Stella ran her fingertip over the heavy embossing of the letterhead, the texture of the paper and subtle dip of the crest rippling beneath her touch. Holding the parchment up to the light, she could see it had been typed, not printed. She drew the letter up to her face, inhaling deeply; typewriter ink, parchment and… Stella inhaled again. Moisturiser? Female secretary. Her inquisitory appraisal of the letter swung abruptly toward cynicism as she envisaged a young blonde, breasts cascading from her blouse dutifully taking dictation from a middle-aged Cabinet ministers aid.   Some hyphenated surname twat with a peerage and dreadful teeth she hypothesized, smiling in spite of herself at the ludicrous image she had managed to conjure.

Gathering the file and all of her notes into her briefcase, Gibson grabbed her jacket and coat. She glanced at her watch as she strode down the corridor. 0615. She ducked into the washroom, tossing her things unceremoniously onto the vanity as she gazed at her reflection in silent appraisal. A strong coffee and half a litre of water would take care of the rings under her eyes she reasoned, quickly touching up her makeup and fixing her hair. She looked at herself critically, steely eyed under the harsh fluorescent lighting, reassuring herself she looked better and brighter than she felt.

Gibson strode through security and out into the Met lobby heading for the door purposefully.

“Gibson.”

The tall, Saville-suited messenger headed her off, falling into step at her side.

“I suppose you’re the _transport_.” Stella slid him a cursory glance as they exited.

“I’ve been called far worse.” He opened the rear passenger door of a black Jaguar saloon, gesturing perfunctorily.

Stella lowered herself into the plush leather interior as the door closed swiftly behind her. She pulled her pen from her pocket, tapping it against the thick, heavily tinted glass.

“What do they call you?” Stella asked as her driver dropped into the front seat.

“Villiers.”

They continued in silence, crossing over the Thames toward Vauxhall.

“Where exactly is this meeting, Villiers?” The car swung into an unmarked subterranean carpark, gates opening automatically as they approached. Stella checked her phone, reception dropping out as they spiraled down.

“Here.” Villiers pulled into a parking spot nearest the elevator at speed.

 

***

 

Villiers placed his palm over a gleaming black plate at the elevator door, stepping back to wait by her side. 

“It’s absurd, really. All the technology in the world and we’re still waiting for the lift.” He smiled, façade softening all of a sudden. Gibson watched him carefully.

“Indeed.” She ventured. “I thought you’d have the finest lifts in London.”

“Still public servants at the end of the day.” Villiers shrugged as the doors opened. “After you.” He held the door, inviting her to cross the threshold first.

Stella stepped into the lift, briefcase clutched in front of her, body language decidedly closed.

“You’re nervous.” Villiers studied her. Stella could feel his eyes roaming across her form. She straightened herself, swinging her briefcase into one hand, shifting her weight to appear more assured.

“She’s not that bad, Gibson.” Villiers smiled. “Certainly not the ‘evil queen of numbers’ they say she is. She’s been following you for quite some time.”

“Oh has she…” Stella continued the charade. Unsure if she was about to land in the centre of a prison or Buckingham Palace she took her cues from Villiers, surprised by his warm nature now they were clearly on his turf.

“You’re quite the topic of conversation.” Villiers offered as the doors slid open. “It’s not often anyone truly impresses her. After you.”

Stella strode from the lift into a modestly appointed annex. A lone demurely dressed secretary sat with her back to a floor to ceiling window, Westminster and the Thames expanding behind her. The other walls comprised entirely of padded leather paneling.

“I’ll leave you here.” Villiers smiled. “Moneypenny?”

“DSI Gibson.” The secretary smiled. “She’s waiting for you.”

Gibson scanned the room for a door, eyes returning to the secretary as Villiers disappeared back into the lift.

“May I take your coat?” She smiled sweetly, reaching under her desk.

“Thankyou.” Gibson placed her briefcase between her ankles, shrugging her coat as a portion of the paneled wall swung open. Seriously? Gibson muttered to herself, handing her coat to the secretary and striding through the door with considerably more confidence than she felt.

“Detective Superintendent Gibson.” A small, elegant woman in her late fifties, soberly suited, shimmering silver hair practically cut into a boyish pixie style approached her, sapphire blue eyes boring into her as she took in her appearance.

“How wonderful it is to finally put a face to a reputation.” Elocution perfect, she paced back to her side of the desk. “Please do sit down.” She gestured to one of two sumptuously appointed leather chairs. Gibson took her seat, skirt rising as she reclined in the chair, elegantly folded her legs.

“No doubt you have questions.” She paused, monitoring Gibson’s response.

“Some.” Gibson’s response was measured. “That being said, I thought secret doors and clandestine COs who exist as little more than a letter were a cold-war fantasy.”

“Perhaps.” The older woman smiled. “Or the fantasy of an ambitious Scotland Yard detective.”

“Who are you?” Stella smiled curtly, rising to the challenge. “You’re not law enforcement or Millitary, and this is no cabinet office.”

“Well deduced.” She smiled. “It’s that fine mind of yours has taken you this far, Gibson. Welcome to Mi6.”

“Thankyou.” Stella blinked, stifling her raw sense of wonder as she regarded the diminutive woman across from her with newly garnered respect. There was no snaggle-toothed, inbred peer in sight. “And you are?”

“When one reaches my station, Gibson.” She reclined, a faint smile washing over her features. “You become little more than a letter. Somewhat of a Cold War hang-over, to coin your phrase.”

“M…” Stella murmured.

“Now we have the introductions out of the way, perhaps you’ll share with me how our friend Dr Bouraji found himself facilitating a record Spider Crab boil for your colleagues at the Met?”

“May I?” Stella lifted her briefcase.

“Please.”

Gibson placed her briefcase carefully on the trailing edge of M’s desk, steady hands freeing her case file.

“I identified Bouraji by means of the tattoo on his left upper arm, an Albanian Nationalist symbol, common amongst Kosovar militia during the Balkans war, given the clandestine process involved in etching them, no two are alike. At this stage there are no known DNA records to sequence for a match.” Stella paused, sliding the photo across the desk.

“Continue.”

“Three similar discoveries have been made in fisheries off the coast of Sardinia in the last eight months, and additionally one off the Provençale coast. Witnesses in Cornwall note that a luxury motor yacht was seen in the vicinity of the harbour in the days leading up to the discovery. In order to pull and re-bait the line of pots our victim was discovered spread across, a boat with no less than 1000hp would be required to operate the winch needed to retrieve the pots.”

Gibson slid another print across the table.

“British naval patrol sighted this boat, a Sunseeker Superhawk 48 off the coast of Cornwall around the time the pots were disturbed. It meets the power criteria and as per the image, appears to have been modified to retrieve fishing apparatus.”

“Only 250 of these boats were manufactured, 80 sold in Europe. One of them, modified for such exercises has been frequently sighted off the coast of Sardinia and around Monaco. Registered in Monaco, INTERPOL surveillance suggests it may be property of the Madau crime family, a Sardinian crime syndicate utilizing a Tuna fishing business as a front for money laundering.”

Gibson placed the remainder of her papers on M’s desk, sliding them across toward her.

“I can only assume somehow Bouraji fell foul of the Madaus, or perhaps they were contracted to dispose of him?” Gibson sighed. “I’ve barely had 24 hours to investigate, and obtaining information from INTERPOL isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Beyond ‘Wanted’ and ‘Suspected’ the files aren’t overly helpful. Additionally I feel it’s safe to assume that the good people of Cornwall don’t see half a million pound boats go by every day.

“Well, Gibson.” M folded her arms, smiling. “You’ve provided more intelligence in 24 hours that 18 field agents have managed in 10 months.”

“Thankyou, ma’am.” Gibson felt herself suddenly sitting taller.

“And as a result of your work, Mi6 are now in a position to apprehend a number of individuals.” M concluded. “Thankyou.”

“That’s all?” Stella looked at her, confounded, pride giving way righteous anger.

“That’s all, Gibson.”

“This is my case.” Gibson seethed, fire flashing through her slate blue eyes. “I deserve the collar.”

“Gibson.” M remained measured. “You should be acutely aware that Scotland Yard have no jurisdiction outside of the United Kingdom.”   
  
“The body was found in UK territorial waters, regardless of whom committed the murder and where.”

“Yes, and unless you have a suspect and an extradition order, you have no case.” M concluded. “Stand down, Gibson. Your work here will be rewarded. Don’t jeopardise your own success.”

“So I’m expected to walk back into the Met as if this never happened?”

“Yes.” M continued, voice taut. “You have aided Her Majesty’s Secret Service with an extremely important investigation.”

“Her Majesty’s Secret Service would fail to have an investigation without me.” Stella countered. “It’s only right that I be allowed to…”

“Jump on a plane and chase terrorists around Europe at Her Majesty’s pleasure?” M cut her off. “On what authority? You have no experience in Intelligence; you certainly don’t have the training or requisite skill set to complete a mission such as this.”

“Give me a chance.”

“Gibson, I give you my personal assurance that you will be acknowledged.” M stared at her coolly. “Leave the files. That will be all.”

Stella stood, heart pounding in her ears in indignation.

“Thankyou, ma’am.” She offered curtly before pivoting on one heel and striding toward the expanding void in the leather-clad wall.

M watched her storm out, a flurry of wounded pride and ill-directed anger.

“Stay in London where I can see you, Stella…” M muttered under her breath.

 

***


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

The sleek, 100ft motor yacht cut through the polished sapphire of the Mediterranean, chasing the last rays of sunlight toward Port Hercule. Large enough to be comfortable without being ostentatious, the aptly named Predator carved a swathe through the pristine calm of the sea as it streaked toward port at speed.

On the bridge, Kratt dropped the satellite phone back into its cradle, briefly exchanging words with the captain. At a touch over 6 foot 4 and devoid of all body hair he cut an imposing figure; lean and lightly muscled with an efficient, ruthless physicality. Dressed simply in a black turtleneck and matching trousers, the only hint of his origin evident in a preference for combat boots over oxfords as he descended the handful of stairs to where his employer sat, attention divided between a pair of laptops.

“I trust the Sardinians had a successful fishing trip with the good doctor?” An elegant man, lank dark brown hair falling across his eyes glanced up from his work. The palour of his skin accented by blue light of the screens. He coughed, hand darting inside his jacket, attention shifting as he took a hit from a platinum-coated inhaler. Le Chiffre reclined in his seat, black silk shirt clinging to the musculature of his chest and shoulders. “What were they fishing for this time?”

“Cornish Spider Crab, sir.” Kratt offered, a shadow of a smile dancing across his angular features.

“Another of Britain’s unique culinary gifts to the world.”

“They’ve just passed Gibraltar.” Kratt continued. “I expect they should be in Monaco sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tell Stefano I don’t want to see that boat anywhere near Hercule.” Le Chiffre’s gaze dropped back to his screens. “That cove west of the headland will suffice. If he sets foot on land in Monte Carlo his next fishing trip will be for Adriatic Bar Shark.”

“Sir they were expecting…”

“I won’t have my programme dictated by men I pay to dispose of rubbish.” Le Chiffre snapped. “They’re too visible, too careless. The trawler was more appropriate.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have a game tonight at the Monte Carlo casino with investors from Bejing.”

“Are you taking the tiller…”

“Kratt.” Le Chiffre cut him off sharply. “I don’t pay $10,000 Euros a week to moor my yacht at sea.”

“I’ll get changed then.” Kratt dipped his head reverently.

“Your attire is entirely suitable for welcoming our Sardinian friends. I need your personal assurance they remain unseen.” Le Chiffre paused. “Ampersand will continue as per schedule, Valenka will accompany me this evening. I don’t require your specific brand of, ‘companionship’ at the Monte Carlo.”

Kratt nodded in perfunctory dismissal, striding from the main deck and out of sight with suitable urgency.

Le Chiffre returned to his screens; the Tokyo Stock Exchange was one hour into trade, Nikkei steady. Shanghai just coming online. JPXT Japan Cross-Transit, now trading at 1,300 yen following an initial public offering some three months prior at 250. Due to commission a prototype high-speed train earmarked to vie for series of lucrative government transportation contracts. The share price continued to creep up with every aerodynamics appraisal and press release. Le Chiffre chuckled quietly to himself, incisors glinting in the twilight.

***

Gibson fumed, stalking the length of her office like a caged lioness.

“Mi6 guv.” Jimmy offered optimistically. “That’s huge. I know I’d be pretty chuffed.”

“Chuffed?” Stella snorted, glaring at him. “I’ve worked my arse off for 24 hours straight to have the rug pulled out from underneath me by some office-bound bureaucrat!”

“She did say you’d be acknowledged…” He tried again, searching for the correct combination of affirmation and consolation. “I’m sure they’ve got the means to make that happen?”

“She was right, you know.” Stella sighed, propping a hip against her desk. “It’s not my place to chase terrorists across Europe at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

“Where would you start?” Jim wondered aloud, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. “Do you just jump on a plane and head to where you think they’ll be?”

“You would need a clear objective.” Stella mused. “Or it would be little more than a trip down the rabbit hole.”

“But how different would it be from investigating here, really?”

“You wouldn’t have the resources or infrastructure in a traditional sense.” Stella paused. “And you would be operating outside the law essentially. Gathering evidence until you were instructed otherwise, I suppose. You were in the forces, Jim. You’d know better than me.”

“No, mum.” Jim chuckled. “We were always deployed as a unit, single mission briefing prior. None of this spy vs spy stuff.”

“The same principles would apply as any undercover operation.” Stella concluded, watching her colleague carefully.

“So what makes you think you’re not qualified then, mum?”

“You flatter me, James.” Stella smiled appreciatively, taking in her young colleague’s earnest expression and kind eyes. Her gaze roamed over his form, hair tousled, face unshaven in light of the hours he had kept by her side.

“Let’s grab some lunch and call it an early one.” She sighed.

“You sure, guv?” Jim watched her intently, fatigue replacing tension as she slowly returned to scale. The slate blue eyes that so often bore into him demanding a deeper truth softening.

“I think we’ve put in enough hours over the last two days to cover a week.” Stella shoveled a handful of files into her briefcase. “If nothing else, it’s nice to know that the most powerful man at Mi6 is a woman.”

 

***


End file.
